The Edge of Glory
by katkin
Summary: "Out on the edge of glory, I'm hanging on a moment of truth. I'm on the edge with you." John's life is in danger, but someone out there is watching out for him. *S2 spoilers!*
1. Chapter 1

Welcome all. I haven't written/posted since last summer. Series 2 has helped me to regain some of my mojo. I'm still getting back into the swing of things.

Each chapter will have a lyric at the beginning, which reminds me of Sherlock and the fall. The lyrics, like Sherlock, do not belong to me.

Enjoy.

K x

* * *

><p><em>"Please hand me the bottle, I think I'm lonely now. Please give me direction, I think the hurt's set in…and I don't feel nothing…yet." Matchbox Twenty.<em>

John Watson wasn't sleeping. It wasn't for lack of trying. He was so desperate, in fact, to fall asleep, that he'd even gone to see 'The Iron Lady' at the cinema, by himself. It hadn't worked. He had left half way through.

His therapist had asked him to talk about what he was avoiding in his sleep. He hadn't been able to say to her, but he knew. Of course he did. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the familiar figure, falling slowly, and tearing his life apart.

It had been obvious from the look on Ella's patient face that she knew that he knew. She also knew he wouldn't tell her.

"John," she had smiled kindly, "if you can't say it to me, there is nothing to stop you talking to someone else about it. Who could you talk to?"

"Sherlock," John had replied. There had only ever been Sherlock. Ella hadn't pushed the subject further, and John had been grateful, but he knew she was right. It was time to speak to someone.

That evening, John stirred at the sound of his phone vibrating against the coffee table. He picked it up and attempted a smile as he read the message.

_Lestrade:  
>Drink? Alcohol, large, I'm paying.<em>

He hadn't spoken to Lestrade since Sherlock's death, though it hadn't been for Lestrade's lack of trying. It had been several weeks since the fall, and John still couldn't bring himself to face the sympathy and the questions. John typed his response and exhaled. There was something about leaving the house that filled him with a sense of dread. But maybe he was ready?

A few hours later, John stepped inside the Rose and Crown. His face felt hot at the thought of several eyes on him. Lestrade was sat at a small table, around the corner from the main section of the bar. Two pint glasses sat expectantly. John picked one up and took several big gulps, before even managing a greeting. He sat down heavily and managed a small smile at the Detective Inspector.

"Hi."

"Hi."

They looked at each other and laughed awkwardly.

"Oh, Greg," John said with a sigh, and shook his head by way of explanation.

"I know," the other man replied. He _did_ know. They sat for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"John, I'm _really_ sorry. For everything."

"It wasn't your fault."

Lestrade nodded, looking unconvinced.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm not. If it appears that way, it's because I've had a lot of practice at being a man who is pretending to be ok." He faltered at his own honesty.

"Well, you know where I am, if you need me."

"You're here," John pointed out. Lestrade smiled.

"I, uh, I went round the house, a couple of weeks ago. Mrs H said you're not there anymore."

John took another big gulp of his pint.

"Ah, no. I'm staying at my sister's. She's not there," he added, seeing the look of surprise on the other man's face. "She's working away. Spain, I think. And I can't go back to the flat. Not right now anyway. Maybe one day."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. They each took a sip out of their glasses, and John took an opportunity to take a good look at the man sat opposite. He'd lost a lot of weight in a short space of time. Pale skin only highlighted the dull, dark eyes. It was like Greg wasn't in there anymore; like he was going through the motions. John felt it was like looking into a mirror. He opened his mouth speak, but was silenced by Lestrade's question.

"Why didn't you come to the funeral, John?"

John faltered. He had begun to regret the decision, as the weeks had passed. Maybe it would have offered some closure. But he was a man holding on to something. He wasn't sure what.

"I don't know. I couldn't face it, and all of the press." He'd seen the papers the following day. It had made him feel hollow inside. "They won't leave him alone, even now. And, I knew Mycroft would be there. I really don't have the energy for him anymore. He calls me, _every_ day. I've stopped answering my phone to anyone."

Lestrade thought on this piece of information.

"You could block his number?"

John laughed loudly at the suggestion.

"Mycroft owns _every_ number. No, he'll get bored eventually. He's only bothering me because he feels guilty for…"

"Guilty for what?"

"Nothing. We didn't part on good terms, let's just leave it at that." John offered a tight smile.

"So, have you heard from Molly?" Lestrade asked. John frowned and shook his head.

"No, why?"

"Well, she was there at the funeral, obviously. And she phoned me the other day, to ask how I was. It was…odd really."

"Yeah, well, Molly is odd," John replied. He hadn't heard from Molly. Not at all. Not even in those first few days after Sherlock's death. John considered that maybe he should have called her. Lestrade broke that thought by announcing he was hungry, which promptly reminded John that he, too, hadn't eaten in quite some time. Molly was forgotten as they pulled on their coats and headed for the door.

They bought a tray of chips and sat in the cold air, by the Thames.

"I'm thinking of retiring early," Lestrade announced. "I think they'd pay me off. I'm not exactly in the good books at the moment." Things weren't the same anymore, they both felt that. It had been brilliant, and it had unravelled the moment Sherlock had gone. The moment he had jumped.

"What would you do?" John asked, popping a steaming chip into his mouth. Lestrade shrugged.

"Go somewhere warm. Find a nice girl, house by the sea. Live the dream. Maybe I'll get a dog." He smiled sadly.

"Sounds nice. Send me a postcard, won't you. And if this girl has a sister…" They laughed.

"What about you? What's your plan?"

John shook his head.

"I'll be here. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

John frowned. He wasn't sure why he'd said it. He'd always be waiting.

"I don't know. I'm hoping it'll find me."

They walked down the river bank and over Vauxhall Bridge. The temperature had dropped and John shivered. He considered, for a moment, calling for a cab, but the thought of going back to his sister's empty flat filled him with a new wave of grief. Silence was his flatmate now. Instead, he focussed onto what Lestrade was saying.

"Do you think you'll go back to the flat?"

It took John a moment to realise he meant Baker Street.

"I don't know." In truth, John couldn't see a reason anymore. 221B was far too big a space for one person. "I might pop in to see Mrs H every now and again. She texts me, you know."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in mild amusement.

"Yeah, she sends me texts. And then calls me two minutes later to check that it has sent."

They both chuckled.

"She's a dear."

"Yes. I miss her."

John stopped abruptly, putting an arm out for Lestrade to do the same. Lestrade frowned, noticing a change in John's face.

"What? What's wrong?"

"We're being watched," John muttered, his eyes fixed at the car parked across the street. Lestrade looked too.

"Is it the press?"

John shook his head, and reached into his pocket to produce his gun. Lestrade scoffed in disbelief.

"Do you always bring a gun on a pub date?"

"It's not a date," John said with a small grin, his eyes still fixed across the road. How many times had he said those words before? "I recognise him. He's on the 'most wanted' list."

"How would you know?" Lestrade asked as they turned a corner and stood with their backs against a wall.

"I have a copy," John said vaguely. "It's laminated, and on my fridge."

"God, I wish you were joking."

"Me too."

John poked his head around the corner. What he had failed to mention to Lestrade was that this man was Sebastian Moran who worked closely with James Moriarty as an explosives expert and that one evening he had dragged John to a deserted swimming pool, and strapped a bomb to his chest. If he mentioned this, Lestrade would think that John's actions would be an act of revenge. They weren't. He was just really bored.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade hissed as John headed back into the street. "Oh, come off it. I'm off duty." He followed nonetheless, as John began to run across the street and towards the car. The car's engine promptly revved up and it sped off down the street. John stood in the middle of the road and, with a steady hand, shot three deliberate bullets at the retreating car.

"John, for fuck's sake!" Lestrade shouted. They watched as the car skidded loudly over the road, rolling onto its side, before coming to a halt as it hit a telegraph pole. John was on the move again, towards the wrecked car.

"Call the police," he shouted over his shoulder "…and an ambulance," he added as an afterthought.

Lestrade did as instructed, with a sense of dread that he was now a key witness of John Watson killing a man.


	2. Chapter 2

_"I know everybody's sin. You've got to lose to know how to win." Aerosmith._

Two weeks later…

John opened one eye, and grappled for his phone on the coffee table. His first thought was that he'd actually managed to fall asleep. His second thought was that his alarm had not gone off. He squinted at the brightness of the screen and noted the time.

"Shit!" he hissed, throwing himself from the sofa and tripping on the tangled blanket at his feet.

He washed and dressed quickly, and cursed as he brushed his teeth when a big splodge of toothpaste landed on the front of his shirt.

Harriet didn't own an iron, and John pulled a crumpled shirt from the open suitcase on the living room floor, cursing again.

"Why today?" he mumbled into his chest as he fastened his buttons. "Universe, behave yourself!"

He smiled, despite it all.

Minutes before his cab arrived, the phone rang, and John recognised the number. He took a deep breath and connected the call.

"Hiya, it's me."

"Hello Me," he replied, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he hunted for his wallet.

"You're hilarious," his sister replied. "Can you talk?"

"Yes, for several years now."

"John, come off it," she huffed and he smiled at the sound of her despairing tone. "I just wondered how you are."

"How the flat is, you mean. It's still standing, I'm still standing. Actually, I can't really talk right now. I'm in court this morning."

"What? Why?"

John found his wallet and shoved it into his trouser pocket. For a brief moment he scanned the room for his phone, before realising he was using it. He squeezed his eyes tightly. It was going to be a long day.

"Yeah, I accidently shot at a moving vehicle. Oh, and by accidently I mean deliberately, of course."

Harry barked a laugh down the phone.

"Oh John, your life!"

"I know. They aren't prosecuting me. It's the guy I was shooting at. He's a psychotic explosives expert. I was just doing them a favour really."

"Of course you were, Sweets," Harry said with a sigh. "Well good luck. Try not to kill anyone today."

"I'll try. And thanks…for calling."

John arrived at the venue with minutes to spare. He wished he wasn't so flustered, and took a deep breath. Down the corridor, he saw several people heading in the direction of Court 3, one of which was Lestrade. The elder man nodded in John's direction and mouthed the words "Are you alright?"

John nodded and looked away. He was quickly ushered into a side room by the prosecutor.

"Are we good to go?"

"Yeah," said John in a daze. It seemed his body had arrived, but his brain had yet to join it.

"Just remember what we discussed. Try not to stretch the truth too far, just to make a point. Defence on this case is good, and we don't want to talk ourselves down."

John recalled his own words, several months before:

_Keep it simple and brief…Let's give 'smart-arse' a miss._

He smiled sadly to himself as he was led back through to the corridor, and into the main chamber.

As John stood in the witness box, his eyes viewed the gallery quickly. He faltered at the sight of Mycroft Holmes, sat with a patient yet uninterested expression on his face, as if he had expected the ballet instead. The corner of Mycroft's mouth pulled into a smirk, at the look of surprise on John's face. John simply scowled at him. The smirk faded. Both men locked stares, and John suddenly recognised the sound of his own name. He chastised himself for losing focus.

Miss Clarke, the defence lawyer, looked at John expectantly. He blinked at her apologetically, and she almost looked pleased to be conversing with an apparent moron.

"Please tell us about that evening, Doctor Watson."

John took a moment to recall.

"I met Greg, uh, Detective Inspector Lestrade in the Rose and Crown. Arsenal were playing…badly." This caused a little stir in the viewing gallery and John smirked to himself. "Um, we went to get something to eat, we went for a walk and that's when I discovered we were being followed by Moran."

"So you decided to shoot at him?"

John shook his head.

"No."

"I'm sorry? Did you or did you not shoot at Mr Moran?"

"If I had shot at him, he would be dead, _believe _me. I don't miss." John's eyes locked with Moran's.

"Yes, thank you Doctor Watson," the judge said with a tone of warning.

"So what were you shooting at?" Miss Clarke asked.

"The car. The tyres, to be precise."

"It seems rather odd, to me, that you would shoot at the car of a man you'd never met before."

"I_ had_ met him before," John replied honestly. "About 18 months ago. He tried to kill me."

The room was silent with intrigue. John risked a glance at Mycroft. The man gave a slight encouraging nod.

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he had been paid to…by James Moriarty."

A loud murmur grew in the room and the judge called order impatiently. John smiled at Moran, who smiled back.

"That's purely speculation," Miss Clarke told the judge dryly and John intervened.

"I was there," he said crossly. "There's very little for me to speculate about."

The room fell silent. John stared out in front of him and waited.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. That will be all."

He heaved a deep breath and returned to his seat feeling incredibly tired. He was tired of fighting a battle that he was unable to win by himself. He couldn't convince people that Moriarty existed. Nor could he convince the world that Sherlock Holmes had not been a fake at all.

Moran would be found guilty, regardless of the jury. John was sure of it. Mycroft's presence wasn't purely for John's benefit. The government weren't about to let one of their high priority villains go free.

John left the stuffy courtroom after the verdict was announced and he sat down heavily on a bench in the foyer. His head felt heavy and he placed in his cold hands. His own words played again in his memory: _Let's give 'smart-arse' a miss._

A little chuckle escaped John's lips. He couldn't help but feel that Sherlock would have been pleased with him.

Unsurprisingly, a crowd of journalists had gathered outside John's building when he returned back to the flat. He paid his cab at the end of the road and took a calming breath as he prepared to push his way home. Suddenly, the sound of his own name made him stop. John spun on his heels and saw Mycroft standing patiently beside a black car.

"How are you John?"

John scoffed and began to walk towards his front door.

"I just want to talk to you."

"Well _I _don't want to talk to _you_. Piss off." His angry voice caught the attention of some of the press. They turned and moved quickly in the direction of the two men. "Oh, great," John mumbled.

"John, I only want to apologise. You won't accept my calls. What more can I do but apologise?"

"Save it!" John snapped. He knew that Mycroft craved forgiveness from Sherlock, and that somehow John's forgiveness would be an adequate substitute. "I'm not the one you should be apologising to."

Mycroft faltered, and for a brief moment a moral voice inside John's head reminded him that this man had just lost his little brother. He swallowed that thought down.

"Just leave me alone, please. Stop calling me. I'm not interested."

The crowd of photographers and journalists suddenly swooped around them, and they began shouting at John, over the top of each other. John flinched irritably.

"Doctor Watson, are you pleased with the outcome?"

"Are you and the Detective Inspector working together officially?"

John marched off, as the flashing cameras followed him. As he reached the door he turned angrily, and the hubbub stopped as he spoke.

"What do you want from me? I have absolutely nothing to say to you. I don't work for the Yard. I _do _absolutely nothing. My life isn't of any interest to _myself_, so why the hell do you keep following me? I could make something up if you really want. I'm ever so lonely, according to your papers. Please, do come in for a cup of tea. Oh, except for you," he pointed to a red-headed woman at the back of the crowd. "You can rot in hell." The crowd turn around to see Kitty Reilly, her face flushed with pink.

"If I wanted to be famous for doing nothing, I'd have applied to be on Big Brother," John mumbled angrily as he turned his key in the lock. "Oh, and speaking of Big Brother, why don't you speak with _him_," he turned and pointed to Mycroft who stood on the other side of the pavement. "I'm sure he'd love to stab me in the back. It's what he's good at." The door was slammed shut angrily, and the crowd changed their attention towards the man who was quickly climbing into his car and being driven away.

'**Watson vs Holmes: friction builds between sidekick doctor and elder brother of disgraced detective.'**

_The outcome of yesterday's case found Mr Moran, 41, guilty of the murder of 12 people in an explosion in an apartment block in Yorkshire last year. However, key witness Doctor John Watson, seemed to have other things on his mind. A source stated that "he seemed disinterested by the whole thing."_

_The source continued "Moran heckled him from the stand as the verdict was read out. He told him to watch his back. The doctor just laughed and told him to 'bring it on.'" It is uncertain as to whether or not the police are taking the threats towards Doctor Watson seriously, at this stage._

_Doctor Watson has often been in the public eye over the past 18 month. He was a close friend of the late Sherlock Holmes, who committed suicide three months ago, after his deduction skills were proved to be nothing but a fraudulent act. After the verdict, it became apparent of Doctor Watson's true battle that day, when he was involved in an altercation with Sherlock Holmes' older brother outside the doctors' flat. The pair argued heatedly, and Watson went on to assault a journalist outside his home, before slamming the door on Holmes._

_Details of how deeply Moran was involved in the Yorkshire explosion are expected to be released tomorrow._

John had just thrown his paper down in disinterest when his mobile phone rang.

"You're in the Daily Mail," Lestrade told him. "Page 5."

"I've seen it," John replied wearily, reopening the page to see the headline. "It's utter rubbish. Ignore it."

"It says you assaulted a journalist."

John scoffed. "I told her to go to hell, it's hardly an assault." John took a deep breath, hesitating. "Look Greg, I've been thinking. The press have been asking questions about you; about us. I think it's best if we aren't seen together for a while. I don't want you to get into any more trouble."

There was a pause.

"Ok, if you think it's for the best."

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will."

John wondered, as he put the phone down, whether Lestrade would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

_"It's a sin with no name, no remorse and no shame. Fire, fury and flame, 'cause the Devil's to blame. And the Angels proclaim, it's a dangerous game." Jekyll and Hyde._

The court case had taken a great deal out of John, and he was determined, now more than ever, to get some sleep.

He was curled up on the sofa, with a quilt over his lap, watching a documentary on penguins. It took him several moments to realise that he'd been staring blankly at the screen, as the programme played unnoticed.

The landline phone rang suddenly, making him jump slightly. He stared at it, making no effort to move. It was probably Mycroft, or another journalist wanting more information before printing their fabrication.

The phone went through to the answer machine, and John heard his sister's pleasant voice, asking the caller to leave a message. Mycroft never rang through for this long, and John frowned at the sound of rustling and breathing down the line. The call was promptly disconnected.

John sighed and switched off the television with the remote. Silence filled the flat, and John listened to the noises of the old, converted terrace. From further into the flat, he heard a creaking, and laughed at himself as his imagination got the better of him. However, he kicked the quilt from his legs and stood in the centre of the room, listening. A feeling – one which he was very familiar with – crept down his spine; a foreboding that all was not right. A loud ring filled the air again, and John jumped.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed at the phone. "Stop doing that!" The phone continued its urgent ring, and John suddenly found his hand lowering to lift the receiver.

"Hello?"

The faint sound of breathing could be heard again, only this time a voice spoke down the line.

"How good are you at hiding, Doctor Watson?"

John didn't recognise the voice. His hand moved instinctively for his gun, but it had been put away. In his head, he ticked over the possible places he could have put it.

"Who is this?"

The call was disconnected. John remained, stood in the room, feeling very alone. But not afraid. He considered his options, and reached for his mobile. As he looked down at the phone in his hands, a sudden shattering sound filled the room. A brick landed heavily onto the wooden floor and rolled awkwardly. Instead of moving forwards to peer through the window, John stepped back with his back against the far wall and thought quickly. At that moment, a second item was hurled through the window and John did move this time, cursing under his breath as smoke began to fill the room. He gave a loud cough, picked up the smoke bomb with difficulty and hurled it back out of the window, thinking of how his sister would kill him, if this man didn't get around to it first.

It was clear John couldn't stay in the flat. He headed through to the back of the building, and pulled open the window to the back bedroom. He was only one storey up. Jumping was the only option. He headed back into the living room and snatched up his mobile, pressing anxiously at the buttons. The call connected.

"John?" Lestrade's familiar voice sent a sudden wave of calm through him.

"Something's wrong."

"What is it? Do you want me to come over?"

John thought about this as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the door.

"No. I have to get out of here." He pulled open the drawer on the coffee table, and grabbed the gun. It felt heavy and familiar in his hand. "They're coming for me. I need to leave."

"Come here," Lestrade insisted. John sighed. Lestrade had been through enough. He didn't need this too.

"I'll be fine. I'll call you. Don't come looking for me." He ended the call, pulled his jacket on and headed to the back bedroom, and the open window that waited.

The street was empty. A drizzling rain was falling, giving the street lights an odd glow. He pulled the collar up on his coat, gave a laugh to himself for doing so, and moved quickly down the street. His heart beat rapidly, and he hated himself for the thought that, finally, for the first time in several weeks, he actually felt alive again. _Pay attention, soldier, or you won't be for much longer,_ he told himself firmly. He quickened his pace.

It took only a few moments for John to pick out another set of footsteps in the quiet of the night.

John ran quickly down a side street, and pressed his back against the cold brick wall. His breath sounded in his ears and he couldn't remember the last time he's properly run somewhere. Into the quietness, his phone began to ring loudly. It startled him, and he answered it quickly.

"Where are you?" Lestrade ask. "I'm sending a car over."

"I don't know," John whispered, scanning his eyes down the narrow street. "I can't talk, he'll hear me." With the sound of Lestrade's worried voice calling his name down the line, he switched the phone off and shoved it into his coat pocket. Distant, rhythmic footsteps could be heard at the end of the street. John pulled out his gun and ran, hoping that his assailant was unarmed. A loud crack of gunfire echoed off the walls, and John put away that false hope. He ran out into a busier street, hoping to get lost in the small crowd of people that were about at this hour of the evening. A cry of fear rose into the air as another shot was made at John. John winced, and couldn't fight off the feeling that he was putting civilians in danger by being there. He turned left sharply and headed down a deserted street, muttering quietly under his breath as the footsteps followed loudly after him. Another shot was attempted, and John considered stopping and returning the favour, but he kept running. Eventually the man would run out of bullets, and even if he had more ammunition, it would slow his progress to reload.

John's hunch was correct. After several more minutes of running, the gunfire had stopped, and he heard the rattle of a gun upon the pavement as the footsteps continued. John smiled to himself; all he had to do was outrun the man. The smile faded. Where was he running to? He couldn't run forever. A brief thought of Mycroft shot through his mind, and he hated himself for it. He pushed the thought away.

As he rounded a corner quickly, his own gun left his grip and tumbled to the pavement. John left it, silently kicking himself and hoping that it wouldn't be picked up by the man that was chasing his heels. His assailant had closed the gap, and John could hear his panting breath as well as the clapping of shoes against the damp pavement. John risked a glance over his shoulder. The man grinned at him. John didn't recognise him but he recognised the expression in his eyes; he'd seen it several times before in his life. This man aimed to see his task through to the end. With a flinch, John turned back and kept running. Sherlock couldn't save him this time.

His feet skidding on the wet tarmac as he suddenly stopped. He had reached road. Tentatively, he neared the edge of the curb and a car screeched its horn angrily as it passed. He jumped back and cursed.

John waited for a gap in the traffic and glanced another quick look over his shoulder. The man came into view and grinned widely. John turned his body to face him.

"You can't run forever, Watson. Where are you going to hide?"

It was a good question. John's mind moved quickly, considering his options and the man before him. He was quietly confident that he could take this man down. They were both unarmed. Or so John had thought. A knife was brought swiftly from the man's jacket pocket. It caught the light from the street lamp ahead and glowed eerily orange. John took a step back, nearer the curb, and listened carefully for the traffic, as his eyes never left the knife.

The man offered John another smile, but it quickly faded as both men jumped at the sound of two shots, ringing out over the sound of the traffic. The man recoiled in pain, dropping the knife to the pavement as one bullet hit his shoulder and the other entered his chest from behind. Both men looked at each other in surprise. The attacker frowned at John. John's mind was struggling to keep up with what had just happened. Someone out there was looking out for him. He risked a quickly glance into the darkness, from where the bullets had come from. In that moment, his injured assailant took his chance, and with surprising force, pushed John backwards into the road.

John heard the screech of tyres on the wet asphalt. Everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

"_I've always been with you. Here and now, with all that's within you, be my saviour…and I'll be your downfall." Matchbox Twenty._

John began to slowly regain consciousness, as his head rolled with difficulty onto the damp road. He gave an involuntary groan, and attempted to open his heavy eyelids. The light from the stationary traffic was bright, and John winced. His vision was blurred, and he tried to focus by blinking, but it did nothing but make his eyes water.

He remained still, looking straight up at the dark sky, when the silhouette of a man came into view, leaning desperately over John and grabbing firmly at his aching shoulders. John fought back unconsciousness and tried desperately to focus on the face above him. He could hear nothing, not even the traffic. A loud ringing filled his ears. He wanted to vomit but couldn't compute his brain's instruction to do so.

"Sherlock," he groaned quietly. "Sherlock." His brain finally cut out, and John lost consciousness again. When he came to, the figure had gone, and two paramedics were rushing him into the back of a waiting ambulance.

000

Lestrade rushed into the emergency room, panic etched on his face. He flashed his badge at a member of staff, without even checking to see whether they had seen it, and headed into the room, where John Watson lay motionless. A nurse looked up from the bedside and smiled.

"Are you family?"

"Police," Lestrade said flatly. The nurse frowned.

"Well you'll have to wait until he's stronger before you take a statement."

Lestrade's eyes remained fixed on the man in the bed.

"What? No, he's my friend. Is he ok? Will he be ok?"

The nurse hesitated.

"He'll be going to surgery shortly."

"Shit," Lestrade breathed.

"It's likely there's internal bleeding. It's best to catch it now, if there is. Despite his appearance, he's come off quite well."

She left the room quietly, and Lestrade sat himself down heavily beside the bed.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he asked the man quietly. John remained still. "Idiot." He gave a sad smile.

When John was wheeled to theatre, Lestrade walked with him, and spent several long minutes pacing the waiting room of the ICU department. He was chewing on his thumb in agitation when he heard the rush of footsteps down the corridor. He looked up to see Molly Hooper heading towards him. Her face was flushed with worry.

"Greg!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into his chest awkwardly. Lestrade patted her slightly on her shoulders. "Oh my God! Where is he? Is he ok?"

Lestrade blinked away his surprise and tried to form accurate words.

"He's still in theatre."

Molly gave a little gulp of air. They stood looking at each other.

"You should sit down, Molly," Lestrade suggested, as she lowered herself down into a seat with wobbly knees.

"This is just terrible. This is so unfair. Poor John. Poor, poor John." She wiped at her face.

"Molly, he will be fine," Lestrade said reassuringly. "Calm down, ok? It's you I'm worried about." He gave an encouraging smile, but internally he was perplexed. It was 2am. What was she doing here?

Molly's breathing calmed. They sat in silence, watching the clock. Eventually, John was brought round to the ward, and into a side-room. Molly flinched at the sight of him, and grabbed hold of Lestrade's hand.

A nurse headed over to them.

"He's doing well. He should regain consciousness soon, and then you can talk with him." Her eyes fell on Molly. "Are you family?"

"Can I see him?" Molly asked in response. Lestrade turned to her with a puzzled expression, and the nurse nodded. Suddenly, Lestrade was alone, as Molly headed into John's room and the door closed behind her.

"What the hell is going on today?" he asked under his breath, before leaning back in his seat, and attempting a quick sleep.

000

It was over an hour later when John could begin to see the glow of the strip lighting through his eyelids. He opened them tentatively. He could smell alcohol wash, and knew instantly that he was lying in a hospital bed. With great difficulty, he turned his neck, to glance at the person sat in the chair beside him.

"Sherlock?"

"No, sorry," Molly replied sadly. "Molly." Her eyes were brimming with tears. "Oh my God, John."

John winced. It hurt to breathe. It also hurt to frown. He raised a hand with difficulty to his face, feeling the lacerations and sutures with his grazed fingers.

"Thank God you're ok. Well, not ok, obviously. You're alive…you're alive." She gave several staggered breaths to calm herself, and wiped frantically at her falling tears.

"What are you doing here?" John managed to croak. His mouth was sore, and he could taste blood.

"Oh, I was just passing," Molly stammered. "Greg's here. He's outside. I'll go get him." She stood quickly, looking suddenly relieved at the excuse to leave.

"Am I at Bart's?" John managed to ask. His face didn't seem to be working properly. Molly frowned at the question.

"No. UCH." She chewed on her lip anxiously. "Get better John," she kissed him carefully on his forehead and left quickly.

John didn't have time to think over the conversation, before Lestrade rushed in, looking thoroughly exhausted. John looked away guiltily and stared at the ceiling.

"Shit, John."

"I know, I'm sorry," he muttered. "What's the damage?"

"Well your face is a wreck, but I'm sure it'll just add to your rugged charm." John couldn't manage a smile. "Four broken ribs. They operated, to see what was what. Your kidneys have taken a beating. I think they took your appendix."

"Right," John said numbly. "Great."

"Who was he, John?"

John tried to shrug, and a sharp pain shot through his collar bone. He swallowed back a wave of nausea.

"Dunno. Is he dead?"

"Yes. They pronounced him at the scene. Someone was watching over you." Greg pulled at the heavy chair and sat down. He began to pour a glass of water from the plastic jug on the hospital table. John spoke up.

"It was Sherlock."

Lestrade stared at John, the jug still poised mid-air.

"What was Sherlock?"

John tried to clear his throat. The water was passed carefully to him, and he took a small sip. Lestrade took the glass back and stared at John expectantly.

"It was Sherlock who fired the gun."

The room felt heavy with silence. Lestrade ran a hand over his weary face.

"John –"

"I know it was him, Greg. I saw him. I _saw _him." John repeated this, more for himself than for Lestrade, who was looking down at him with a mixture of worry, pity and bafflement. "When I came to, in the middle of the road, I saw him. He was standing over me. It was him." Tears stung bitterly at his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to go home; back to Baker Street. To go back several harrowing months. To see Sherlock's face again.

"You're sure, are you?"

John faltered.

"Well, no. Not 100 per cent, but –"

"John, please," Greg sighed. "Don't do this to yourself. You're losing it. It's understandable. These past few months have been hell, even without all of this. Just…let's just get you back on your feet first. We'll talk about this again when you're feeling stronger."

John nodded. He felt a pain inside that was nothing to do with his trauma. Lestrade didn't believe him. With every second that passed, John knew he'd begin to doubt himself too.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Down from the edge I can see where we end. And I'd give up all of my days to go back…" Matchbox Twenty._

John's face felt hot as he scanned the living room unnecessarily. There was nothing out of place. Everything was spotless and he gave a nod of satisfaction. All evidence of him sleeping on the sofa had been removed. He knew it would be a talking point; one which he'd rather avoid.

His therapist was due to arrive any moment. John had considered calling her to cancel, but he figured she'd be on her way. He cursed himself, but he only had himself to blame. He had chosen to invite her.

Catching a glance at himself in the mirror above the fireplace, he grimaced at what he saw. The bruising which covered the left side of his face was healing with a dark blue-green colour around his eyes. The stitches in his hairline were due to be removed in a few weeks, but he was itching to do it himself beforehand. The stitches underneath his shirt were a different matter. He had decided it would probably be best if he left those alone.

The doorbell rang loudly and he hissed a swear word, before reminding himself that she could probably hear him. He arranged his face into what he hoped was a welcoming expression, and struggled with difficulty to the door. Ella's warm smile greeted him. He noticed it fade slightly as her eyes landed on his facial injuries. But, ever the professional, she didn't react to them.

"Hello John,"

"Hi. Come in, come in."

They stepped awkwardly into the living room.

"I don't normally do house-calls," Ella said by way of conversation as he took her coat. "But given the circumstances…" she trailed off as she looked at him. He shuffled uncomfortably at her scrutiny.

"Well, thanks for seeing me." He wished she'd said no. He wished he'd not asked her in the first place. Why had he? A pain shot through his stomach, which was nothing to do with his stitches.

"How are you feeling?"

"Uh…" He considered lying, but he knew it would be obvious. "I'm in a lot of pain, actually….Yeah." He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"How did you feel about being discharged?"

"I wasn't. I, uh, I left A.M.A."

Ella frowned at this news.

"Why did you make that decision?"

John shrugged.

"I'll be fine." In truth, being stuck in a hospital bed with only his thoughts for company had frustrated him more than sitting alone in his sister's flat. Besides, he hated hospitals.

John offered Ella a seat and drink. She sat gracefully into an armchair, and John lowered himself with difficulty onto the sofa. He jiggled one leg in agitation, and wished that he was on his own.

"I'm not really sure where to start," John admitted to his knees. Ella nodded encouragingly.

"What made you call me and invite me here?" she prompted. John thought on this question.

"My friend Greg thinks I'm losing it," he answered simply. "I, uh, I've felt some pretty complex things in my life, but this has knocked me off my feet. Quite literally." He smiled at his own joke. "The problem is I _don't _think I'm losing it. I guess I invited you here to tell me whether or not I'm crazy."

"That's very broad, John. Would you be able to explain a little deeper into what you're feeling?"

John sat silently in his seat for several minutes. Ella didn't interrupt the silence. He considered the look on Greg's face when he'd told him so insistently that he'd seen Sherlock that night. Would Ella look at him with that same pitying expression? Would she smile and agree that, yes, he was crazy? Eventually he spoke.

"The day after Sherlock died, I called him…on his phone. I don't even know where it is. Maybe his brother has it, or the police, I don't know. But I called him to hear his voicemail message." He could feel his eyes becoming hot and he blinked away the prickling feeling. "I just wanted to hear his voice again. It sounds stupid, I know." Ella shook her head. She didn't think it sounded stupid at all. John cleared his throat. "I'd call him, every day, some days on several occasions, because I needed to remind myself that he was real. I know… I know the press have ripped him to shreds. But I wanted to remember him as he was to me. And, I was worried I would forget his voice."

John knew he would never forget those final words, spoken frantically down the phone:  
><em>Will you do this for me?<em>

Ella leant forward, and John realised he'd almost forgotten she was there.

"Do you still call him now?"

John nodded numbly.

"Yes," he whispered. "But it's different now."

"How is it different, John?"

John shook his head, and wiped angrily at his face.

"I call him now because I think… one day he might pick up."

The room fell silent. John inhaled deeply, and held it. He refused to meet Ella's eyes. He was worried what he might see in them.

"What's caused this change?" she prompted, after a moment. John exhaled a little laugh.

"I saw him. I saw him that night, as I lay there in the road. It was him," he said to himself rather than Ella. "I know it was him. And I also know how ridiculous that sounds. It's why Greg thinks I'm crazy, and why you probably think I'm crazy too. But I _know_!" He gave a little sob and sniffed loudly. "I just want, more than anything to be right about something; about this! For once. I just want to be right."

John closed his eyes. From the hall, he could hear the loud ticking of his sister's oversized clock. He counted the seconds, until he lost count. When he opened his eyes, Ella was looking at him, waiting patiently in her chair.

"I, uh, I've been thinking a lot about that day –about the fall– and wondering why. Why did he make me watch that? Why would he do that? Whether he's alive or not, I still can't get my head around that fact that he would do that to me."

"How does that make you feel?"

"Angry…and confused. Mainly just angry. I mean, why would anyone make someone watch that. It makes me want to hurt him," John admitted, surprising himself. He wished he hadn't said it. His mind flicked suddenly to the untouched packet of pain medication in the bathroom. Suddenly, he understood himself a little bit more. He hated himself a little bit more as well.

"I think I'm done now," he said quietly into the room. "I'm pretty tired."

Ella nodded but didn't move. John didn't move either. He couldn't.

"Do you think I'll ever get over this?" he asked. Ella hesitated.

"That's not for me to decided, John."

He gave a light laugh.

"I know. I'm sorry." Closure seemed a long way off, and he knew he wasn't helping himself. He had thought visiting Sherlock's grave had helped, but now knowing what he knew – what he thought he knew – he didn't think he could go back there again. He was trapped in a place between knowing and not knowing. A small smile played on his lips. How often had Sherlock made him feel like that!

"I'm going to go back to the house," he announced from nowhere. Ella nodded. "I think that might help. I've been avoiding it for too long now."

000

As John's cab entered Baker Street, his heart beat madly in his chest. He pretended, for a brief moment, that he was returning home during a case; exhausted and hungry, with Sherlock sat silently beside him, lost in thought. The reverie didn't last long, as John stepped out onto the pavement and looked at the familiar black door. The brass numerals greeted him as they used to and he risked a glance up at the dark windows of the first floor.

He briefly considered knocking, but his hand was instinctively reaching for the keyhole. The key stuck slightly as it always had and his heart gave a pang. How he missed home!

The door swung open and silence greeted him.

"Hello?" he called into the hallway. "Mrs H?" There was no reply. Perhaps he should have called first, but part of him wanted to be alone.

With great difficulty, he made it upstairs, wincing as the pain jolted with every step. He reached the first floor and stood motionless outside of the living room door as he caught his breath, before stepping into the next room.

The first thing his eyes landed on was the empty armchair facing the door. John moved to the middle of the room. He wasn't breathing, and reminded himself to do so. Every surface in the room had been cleared. Only the furniture remained. There was nothing stuck to the mirror, no pile of unopened post pinned to the fireplace, no skull. It had all gone. John hadn't been expecting it to look so…empty. He crossed over to his own armchair and caught the toe of his shoe on something sticking out from under the coffee table. He frowned and bent down carefully. John lifted the violin case from the floor and put it deliberately onto the coffee table. After a moment of hesitation, he opened the case, hearing the clasps click loudly into the silent room. He studied the violin, and ran a finger down one string before plucking it gently. It made a flat twang. John swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. He carried the violin to his armchair and sat down with difficulty. The violin lay across his lap as he stared numbly past the opposite armchair and to the window.

A bubble of disappointment crept into his chest and he forced it down, unsure of what he was disappointed in. What had he expected to find? Sherlock's junk for one. And maybe some closure. The flat felt so changed. John heaved a sigh. Even the air sat heavily in the room.

"John?"

The voice made him jolt and he pulled at his stiches. Mrs Hudson stood apologetically in the door way.

"Jesus, woman. You scared the shit out of me." He stood from his chair, fighting back the pain.

"Sorry love." She crossed over to him and gasp at his face. "Oh look at the state of you." She pulled him into a firm embrace. He stood there numbly, realising that he had needed a cuddle for so long. They stood there for a moment, and John felt suddenly sleepy for the first time in a long while. He wanted Mrs Hudson to look after him, now more than ever. She tutted to herself, into his shoulder, and then pushed his to arm's length. "What am I going to do with you?" John shrugged and averted her gaze, hating that she looked so sad.

"Just a passing visit?"

"Yeah," he replied simply. "You've been busy. It looks really different. What's that smell?"

"Clean," she answered with a wry smile. He returned it. He'd never seen the flat like this before, and wondered if this was what it had looked like in the days before he'd moved in; the day before he'd met Sherlock Holmes.

John took another look around the room, recalling the first time he ever stepped foot into the flat. It had been a mess with things strewn over the tables and books piled high in the corner. Now it was empty. Gathering dust. A lot like him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"So, the science equipment, did you get rid in the end?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, I was going to take it to a school, remember, but I had a visit from Molly a few weeks ago and she took it off my hands."

John chewed this information over thoughtfully. A strange feeling began to spread through him, like pins and needles.

"And the rest of it?" he inquired.

"She helped me with quite a few bits actually. Clothes, books. I wouldn't have managed. Not on my own. Not that I'm blaming you, dear. I know how it is."

John nodded numbly in response.

"I saw Molly," he announced randomly, more for his own ears to hear. "I saw her. She was at the hospital." By his bedside, in the middle of the night…Something about that still didn't sit right.

"She's such a love. But she didn't look herself at all. She was ever so tired. But I suppose that's the shock…Are you alright, love?"

John offered her a tight smile.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. Uh, actually I have to go." He was already heading for the stairs.

"Won't you stay for a cuppa?"

"Next time. I promise."

"Be careful, love," she called after him.

John struggled down the stairs and out into the street. He surveyed both ends of the street, not really knowing what he was expecting to see. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his pocket for his phone to make a call. The line rang several times before it was answered.

"Hello?"

"Mike? It's John; John Watson. I was wondering if you could do me a favour?"

* * *

><p>Thanks to all who have readreviewed/favourited so far. It's very much appreciated :-)


	6. Chapter 6

"_I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone. But though you're still with me, I've been alone all along."_ Evanescence.

John stepped out of the cab several streets away from St Bartholomew's Hospital. He revisited the memory of that day enough in his mind, without wanting to relive those final moments. He hated that his mouth was so dry.

Crossing over to the west entrance of the hospital, he saw Mike Stamford looking out into the crowded street. His face widened into a smile as his eyes landed on John. They shook hands sincerely.

"Good to see you're still…"

"Alive?" John suggested.

"Well, yes. How are you John?"

"Fine," John replied automatically. He shuffled awkwardly on his feet. A pain shot through his ribs, and he hoped that Mike hadn't noticed.

"It's been too long. I'd expected to see you at the funeral."

"Yeah, well…" John offered as a response. He wasn't ready for any of this. He felt small in the shadow of the tall building, and for a brief moment he was reminded of its height; Of the fall.

"Um, sorry…Did you bring the –?"

"Oh, yes." Mike pulled the hospital key card from his jacket pocket. "If anyone asks, your name is Marie," he said with a smile. "She's off on maternity leave." He paused awkwardly. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Define stupid."

Mike frowned, and John gave a nervous laugh. It seemed to do the trick, and Mike relaxed again.

"Do you know where you're going?"

John shook his head.

"First floor," Mike continued. "Head towards Outpatients and it's on the left."

John nodded.

"What's the name of the guy in charge?"

Mike gave a thought.

"McGuire. He's a bit of a buffoon."

"My kind of man," John replied with a grin. "Thank you, Mike. Thanks for this." He shook his friend's hand again and turned on his heels.

John began to head to the hospital door. Mike spoke up, bringing him to a halt.

"I don't believe what the press are saying about Sherlock. I'd want him to know that. So I'm telling you. You're all we have left of him now."

John nodded his silent thanks and headed into the building.

The familiarity hit him straight away as he headed down the corridors. His legs moved on auto-pilot and he had to promptly inform his brain that he was not heading for the labs or the morgue.

As John headed down the unfamiliar corridor, he scanned the signs on the door, before coming to an alcove with a small wooden desk. The desk was unmanned and the door behind it bore the sign 'Private: Security Staff only."

John smiled to himself, headed around the desk and held his breath as he raised the key card to the pad. A little green light flashed and he pulled open the heavy door. He was greeted with a small dark room, containing several monitors along one wall. The three remaining walls were covered with shelves which held rows of disk cases. John began scanning the shelves carefully, squinting with difficulty in the poor light. Each case was labelled by hand in black marker pen, and displayed a date along the spine.

From behind him, John heard the door open, but his eyes remained fixed on the shelves.

"Oi, mate you're not supposed to be in here."

John didn't respond.

"I'll call the police."

Without looking at the man, John pulled a police badge from his jacket pocket and held it vaguely in the man's direction.

"Relax, ok? McGuire knows I'm here." John flinched internally at the risk he'd just taken, but he turned to the man for the first time and glanced at his name badge. It read the name Bob Packham. John smiled to himself.

Bob looked stunned by John's presence, and then nodded dumbly.

"How often do you reuse your security disks?" John asked, before Bob could put his brain into gear.

"Bi-annually," Bob replied, looking suddenly pleased with himself for being able to help. John nodded thoughtfully. "They're ordered in date, but also by floor," he explained, wafting a hand down the shelves.

John's eyes searched again, and he reached out for a case before handing to Bob.

"Can you show me this?"

Bob sat heavily onto the office chair, and John sat beside him feeling a sudden sense of dread at the thought of seeing Sherlock on the screen.

"Do you have a time in mind?"

"4pm…maybe a bit before."

As the disk loaded, John thought through the hospital's security in his head.

"You have cameras on all floors?"

"Yeah. They cover each door of the hospital, and every corridor. There's often a gap in the link on our corridor cameras as some of them move, but it's no more than 20 seconds. All of the door cameras are static."

"And the roof?"

"No, not the roof."

John stood silently for a moment, thinking on the information Bob had given him.

"Do you think it would be possible to get from one end of a corridor to another, without being seen?" John prompted. Bob thought on this and shrugged.

"I suppose it's possible. If you're really clever… Actually, no. Even if you moved quickly, you'd still be picked up by a static cam at the other end."

John frowned.

"Ok, thanks. Wait, stop it here," John held out a hand and Bob paused the footage. Sherlock's tired face looked ghostly pale in the black and white, grainy footage. John gave a shuddered breath.

"Is that who you're looking for?" Bob asked, looking up from the screen at John's focussed face. He gave a distracted nod. "What is he, some sort of criminal mastermind?"

"Something like that," John mumbled. He indicated for Bob to resume the footage and they watched Sherlock walk along the corridor on the top floor of the hospital. He gave a look over his shoulder before opening a door and stepping through. The door closed heavily, and Sherlock was gone.

"That's the roof," Bob explained. John simply nodded. They fell silent. Bob watched John as his eyes remained fixed on the screen. The seconds ticked by on the monitor and the door never reopened.

"I could forward it," Bob suggested. "To see when he comes back down."

"He doesn't," John said quietly, ignoring the frown forming on the other man's face. John's face felt suddenly hot and he left his chair quickly. He took several deep breaths as he scanned the other shelves.

"Who has access to this room?" John asked, trying hard to keep his voice strong. Bob frowned at the question.

"Nobody other than Security staff."

"I got in," John pointed out with a little smile. Bob nodded.

"Yeah, yeah I suppose you did."

"So any member of hospital staff could get in?"

"Yeah, I guess. If they had a key card. But it's unlikely they would. It's not particularly interesting. As a hospital, we tend to concentrate on immediate security; terror threats and that. You understand?"

John nodded.

"But someone _has_ been in here."

Bob looked puzzled at John's remark.

"They've been in and they've taken a disk." John pointed to a shelf. The disks had been spread slightly, to disguise the fact that one was missing. Bob looked uneasy.

"I know it's missing, because it just so happens to be the disk I'd come to see," he smiled at Bob. "Weird, huh?"

"Weird," Bob echoed quietly, looking thoroughly confused. After a pause, John inhaled loudly, making Bob jump slightly.

"Well thank you Mr Packham. You've been very helpful. I'll see myself out."

"I hope you find him!" Bob called after him.

John left the dark room in a hurry, and headed further into the hospital towards the familiarity of the labs. He felt dizzy, and a voice in his head told him firmly that he was overdoing things. Seeing Sherlock on that screen had filled John with a fresh determination. Despite his dizziness, he walked purposefully on.

Part of him screamed to turn and run; to not go back to the place where he'd last been with Sherlock, where he'd called Sherlock a machine and stormed out in anger. His hand shook as he raised the key card to open the door. The door swung open and John surveyed the room. The lights were on but the room was still. A glance at his watch told him that it was lunch time. Out in the corridor, he heard voices passing. John moved quickly over to the work bench, where he found a laptop switched on, but locked. Beside it was a pile of bright pink post-it notes, shaped like a heart. John looked at them, baffled, before grabbing a pen and scrawling a note:

_I'm on the roof._

He added a smiley face as an afterthought, and stuck the note to the laptop screen. Satisfied, John headed for the door, giving a final look around the room that he and Sherlock had spent so much of their time in. The door closed heavily behind him.

It took all of John's strength to climb the staircase to the roof. The effort pulled at his stitches, but also at his heart. With every step, he thought of the possible things that had gone through Sherlock's head as he had made his way up the same flight of stairs, several months before. John was greeted with a blustery wind as he stepped out onto the roof. It was a bright day, and London spanned out far into the distance. John could just make out the noise of the traffic below as he took several steps towards the centre of the roof. Far above him, a plane moved slowly but steadily through the sky. He gave a heavy sigh and made his way over to the edge.

John watched as the pedestrians walked busily along the pavement. It didn't feel as high as John had expected. But it had felt like an age, watching that body fall so slowly to the ground. He hadn't heard the thud, but the thought kept him awake at night.

For a brief moment, John considered stepping off the edge and ending it. Completing the story. Joining his friend. The thought was gone in an instant and instead he laughed loudly into the air. Nobody was there to hear it. In a smooth motion, John jumped from the ledge back onto the roof. He sat and waited.

Less than an hour later, the door to the roof blew open with a bang, and a worried voice carried on the wind.

"I got your note. Are you ok? What are you doing…here?"

John rose from the edge and smiled politely. Molly Hooper blinked back at him, her nose scrunched in confusion.

"John," she laughed nervously, tucking a piece of hair behind one ear. "What are you doing here?"

"Thank you," John replied, crossing the roof towards the door. "That was the reaction I was hoping for."

Molly moved with him, blocking the doorway.

"Who were you expecting?" he asked bluntly.

"What? No-one. I don't know."

"So you came up to find out?"

"Yes," Molly replied, looking thoroughly unconvinced herself. "John, are you ok?" She took his hand and John looked down at it, hating that his hands were shaking.

"You're so nice," he stated.

"Um, thank you?"

"No, _really _nice. Lovely, in fact. Caring. So caring that you would stay by my bedside in intensive care." He stared at her. She didn't respond. "Why would you do that? Even my own sister wasn't that bothered, but _you_ came. Not only that but you stayed all night. And then promptly left when I'd regained consciousness. Why would you do that? Did someone ask you to?"

Molly blinked at him. Her hair whipped around her frantically in the wind, and John suddenly realised how frightened she looked; not of him but of what he was saying.

"I don't know what you mean."

John laughed loudly and it ached at his ribs.

"I think you do."

He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. Could he bring himself to say the words? He didn't think that he could bear to be wrong, to have it all come crashing down. Maybe Greg was right. Maybe he was losing it. He took a deep breath.

"Where is he, Molly?"

"Where's who?"

"Sherlock. Where's Sherlock?"

She gave a strangled laugh.

"John, please don't do this to yourself."

"Where is he?"

"He's dead, John. Dead and buried. He's playing Cluedo with the Devil…and probably winning," she added with a sad smile. John took a few steps backwards and shook his head.

"No, no I don't believe you! I saw him, that day. I _saw_ him."

"John –"

"And you…at the hospital…and you took all of his stuff." It took a moment for John to realise that he was hyperventilating. White spots dance quickly across his eyes and he squeezed them closed tightly.

"John," Molly gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He hadn't even realised she'd still been holding it. "He's gone." They stood there numbly for a few moments. "Go home, go to sleep. Take your pain meds; that might help for a start." She gave him a smile. "I'll call you at the weekend, to see if you feel better."

They headed for the door, conversation seemingly over. As John reached for the handle, he stopped suddenly with a shake of his head.

"No, you're wrong. I'll prove it to you."

She sighed wearily.

"How exactly?"

"I…I don't know. You have no idea how badly I want to prove you wrong."

"I do," she replied quietly, as he walked away down the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

"_My mind is clearer now… At last, all too well, I can see where we all soon will be.  
>If you strip away the myth from the man, you will see where we all soon will be…" Jesus Christ Superstar. <em>

John hailed a cab and sat numbly in the back, staring silently out of window as London passed him by. He thought on everything he'd seen, and everything he hadn't seen. Was he clinging on to false hope? All he had to go on was the figure he'd seen, while semi-conscious lying in the middle of the road. As much as he hated himself for it, he was beginning to doubt himself. But who had taken the CCTV footage of the morgue on that day? And why?

What else did he know? He thought back to that day outside St Bart's, and realised that he knew very little. Who had identified the body? Who had signed the certificate? His hand itched to call Mycroft, but his pride fought him down. Instead he dialled another number frantically into his phone as the car moved slowly through the streets of London.

"Hello?" came the small voice down the end of the line.

"Greg. It's me. I'm coming over."

"Are you ok?"

John thought about this for a moment.

"No, No I'm not. I think you're right. I'm losing it. Will you help me?"

"What do you need?"

Lestrade met John in the foyer of Scotland Yard and walked with him up to his office.

"Sally not around?"

"I sent her on a break."

John nodded his thanks as they entered the office, closing the door behind them.

"Hear me out," John said, as he lowered himself wearily into a chair.

"Taking it easy, I see," Lestrade said. John chose to ignore the observation.

"Greg, I think Sherlock may still be alive."

"John –"

"No, don't. Don't do that; that pity look. Yes, I've considered that I may be struggling to find closure, or inventing false hope as a way of coping." He gave a sigh. "I know what I saw. I saw him, Greg."

"No," Lestrade replied. "What you saw was a car hitting you down at fifty miles an hour. That's a pretty traumatic experience in my opinion."

A brief silence fell between them. John shook his head.

"You don't believe me," John said quietly, defeat threatening his tone.

"I _want_ to. Lord knows I do. He was an idiot, but I miss him. Deeply. There's so much more I wanted to say to him. 'Sorry' would be a good start."

Lestrade bit his lip in thought. It had been clear to John, from very early on after Sherlock's death, that the man wasn't coping well either. There was a sense of guilt and responsibility which hung heavily around the man's shoulders. John wanted desperately for all of this to be over. Not just for himself but for Greg too.

He leant forward onto the desk.

"We need to know. One way or another."

Lestrade considered this for a moment. He watched his colleagues moving about outside his office, and the thought of the damage he'd done to his career…The damage he'd done to Sherlock.

"Ok, what do you need?"

John sat up in his chair, and suddenly Lestrade saw _John_; the old John, before any of the tragedy and lies had ruined him.

"Phone the Emergency Services department. I want records of when I was hit."

Lestrade picked up his phone willingly and began to dial.

"You want to speak with the paramedics about who was there at the scene?"

"No," John replied bluntly. "I want a copy of the telephone recording."

Fifteen minutes later, Lestrade put the phone back into its holster.

"So, the call was made from a pay phone on the corner of North Gower Street. The caller didn't give a name."

"Hmm," John replied, chewing on the edge of his thumb.

"Listen, I think you need to prepare yourself for the distinct possibility that it's not him."

"Uh huh."

"Are you listening to me?"

"And the audio recording?" John prompted.

"They're locating it now, and sending it through."

John nodded and fixed his eyes on the window. The sky had clouded over, making the day darker and colder. They sat there in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Lestrade shifted in his chair and clicked at his computer.

"We have lift-off," he said, opening the email. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes."

Lestrade hesitated and John rolled his eyes, reaching for the mouse.

"Ok, ok, just…" Lestrade trailed off, unsure of what to say to prepare them for what was to come.

As the audio began, the sound of several phone operators could be heard in the background, before a female voice came clearly over the top.

"Emergency services, can I please take your name and your location?"

"North Gower Street," an unclear, male voice replied. John's eyes met with Lestrade's.

"Thank you, Sir. Can you tell me what's happened?"

John braced every muscle in his body. His pulse beat loudly in his ears and he had to remind himself to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed: _Just one more miracle. Do this for me…Please Sherlock!_

It felt like an age before the caller spoke again in a familiar, baritone voice:

"Yes, you need to send an ambulance, right away. It's my friend. He…he's been hit by a car."

John's trembling hand covered his mouth as he sat back heavily in his chair and let out a little cry. From across the office he heard Lestrades' intake of breath. The voices continued.

"Ok, keep calm for me. Is he conscious?"

"No, not anymore. I don't know. I… I'm not with him," the voice cracked in panic.

"Shit," Lestrade whispered. "Shit."

John remained motionless; his eyes were no longer focussed. The room seemed to swallow him up, and only the voice remained.

"Please, you have to help him."

"Sir, can you go to him?"

"No. No, I can't!" Sherlock's voice said desperately into the room. John blinked back tears. "I _can't_," he repeated quietly. "I have to go. Just…send help." The call was ended and the audio clip stopped.

Silence rang in the room. It was broken suddenly by John giving a quiet sob and then exhaling loudly.

"Oh, Jesus!"

"John…" Lestrade crossed to him and squeezed him firmly on the shoulders. "Ok, deep breath for me, please?"

"I'm ok, I'm ok." John shut his eyes tightly, feeling suddenly dizzy. "Actually, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Go for it," Lestrade said, and John laughed; a strange, strangled laugh, as if it had been waiting all of these months and had finally forced itself out.

"It's him, Greg."

"I know," he replied, looking stunned. "Shit! How? I mean, why? And how?"

John looked suddenly serious again.

"I don't know." There were so many questions that John had about that day. Suddenly, he didn't care for the answers so much. Sherlock was alive. All other facts were insignificant.

"Don't…Don't mention this to anyone, ok?"

Lestrade nodded his agreement.

They listened to the recording once more. When it finished, John rose on wobbly legs.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To find him," John said, simply.

"Where will you start?" Lestrade asked as John pulled open the door.

"I have a hunch where he'll be."

"Where?"

John smiled faintly.

"She didn't take the violin."


	8. Chapter 8

"_I know soon you will be over the lies. You'll be strong, you'll be rich in love and you will carry on…But no, oh no you won't be mine." Matchbox Twenty_

It had begun to rain heavily and the sun had started to set behind the city's buildings, as John arrived outside Molly Hooper's ground floor flat. He rang the intercom and waited for a response. From the small speaker, he heard her voice.

"Hello?"

"It's John."

"Oh."

He could mentally picture the look on her face as she paused in hesitation.

"I hate to intrude but it's pissing it down out here. Can I come in?" There was a long pause before she answered.

"Um, sure. Give me a mo."

The door unlocked electronically and John stepped in, feeling the heat hit his damp face. Molly greeted him with a reluctant smile.

"Twice in one day. I am a lucky girl."

"Well, I was just passing. You know how that is…Just passing." He looked at her significantly but she averted his gaze.

"Let me take your coat. It's wet. Drink? The kettle boiled not long ago."

John shook his head, but took his coat off carefully, wincing in pain.

"I'm good."

She took it from him and hung it on the back of the door. They stood awkwardly for a few moments, until Molly indicated for him to sit on the sofa. He obeyed, moving a woollen mouse beforehand.

"Sorry, it's Toby's. My cat," she explained nervously. "Look, John, I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here? Can I help you with anything?"

"Maybe," John muttered, his eyes scanning the room quickly. He felt her eyes on him, questioningly, and he stopped. "I, uh, I came to apologise. I'm sorry about earlier…on the roof. I didn't mean to upset you." He gave a laugh. "Believe it or not, I'm on some pretty heavy painkillers at the moment. They seem to be messing with my head."

"Are you, though?" Molly said abruptly, before covering her mouth with a hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'm not stupid John. I know you're not taking them. It's pretty obvious. You look terrible, in fact. And Mrs Hudson said –"

"What did she say?" John asked irritably.

"Nothing. It was nothing. Sorry." Molly hesitated. "Why aren't you taking your medication?" she asked quietly, John shrugged in response. He didn't know why, and wasn't prepared to go into it with Molly. Not today, at least. He lifted a trembling hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"John?"

"Sorry. I'm ok. It's just been one hell of a day."

"Do you want a glass of water?" He nodded silently, but then stood quickly.

"Actually, can I use your bathroom?"

The sudden look of alarm on her face didn't go unnoticed by John, but it faded quickly and she nodded.

"Second on the left."

The bathroom was much cooler, and John sat on the edge of the bath. He took several deep, painful breaths. He looked around the room. There was no obvious evidence of anyone, other than Molly, using the bathroom. A pink towel hung neatly on the rail, and a wooden shelf contained several bottles and containers of various creams and powders. John wrinkled his nose at the smell of lavender, and wished he didn't feel so sick. He took a moment to splash some cold water on his face. _Get a grip! _he chided himself. On shaky legs, he made his way back through to the living room. Molly smiled at him but it soon faded.

"Oh my God, you're bleeding!"

John looked down with a frown and sighed. A wet crimson patch was growing quickly across his stomach. He gave a tut of inconvenience.

"Damn it."

Molly rushed to fetch a towel and placed it over his stomach. She applied pressure and looked at him sternly.

"Please don't fuss. It's just my stitches."

"John, you're shaking."

"I'm fine." It was so much easier to say. In truth, he didn't feel fine at all. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on Molly's face.

"No, you're not!" She lifted the edge of his shirt, before he had chance to object. "Are you septic?"

"No…not yet," he added with a wry smile.

"This isn't funny, John!" she said crossly. John flinched.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be fine." This wasn't how he'd expected this to go in his head. He wished he was lying down in the dark, alone. But then he remembered the phone call and felt a sudden surge of energy.

"Please, go to the hospital. I'll come with you."

"No," he said defiantly, lowering himself down onto the sofa. Molly joined him, her hand still pressed against his abdomen. "I'm not leaving here. Not until I get what I came for."

"What did you come for?"

John sat back slowly and sighed. He didn't have the energy for any of this. He brought his phone from his pocket. The screen displayed a message:

_Lestrade:  
>Are you ok?<em>

He keyed it away and thumbed open the menu. Molly looked at him in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak but was silenced as the audio recording played into the silence.

"_Emergency services, can I please take your name and your location?"  
>"North Gower Street."<br>"Thank you, Sir. Can you tell me what's happened?"  
>"Yes, you need to send an ambulance, right away. It's my friend. He…he's been hit by car."<em>

"But…that's –" Molly's jaw dropped.

"Sherlock, yes." They stared at each other. Molly slumped back against the sofa and let out a staggered breath. "You don't seem too surprised. But then, why would you be?" He gave an angry scoff. "How could –? I mean why would –? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm so sorry," she sniffed. "I wanted so much to– Oh God. This has been killing me!"

"Not as much as it has been killing _me_!" he snapped at her angrily. "I assure you."

Molly's eyes filled with tears. John couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry.

"Where is he, Molly?"

"I, I don't know," she stammered.

"Or, you could tell me the truth? Because I'm not going anywhere Molly. I have nowhere else to be. So, unless you want me to bleed to death on your sofa, I suggest you start talking." He rose suddenly and headed to the hallway. Molly chased after him, dropping the bloody towel to the floor.

"What makes you think he's here?"

John fought the urge to pass out. He spun on his heels and spoke through difficult breaths.

"I, too, have been talking to Mrs Hudson, and I, too, am not stupid. _Please_ Molly, I just…I need to talk to him. That's all I want."

Molly seemed to consider his passionate plea. At that moment, from below, an audible creak sounded in the silence.

"Do you have a basement?" John asked rhetorically as he headed to the door under the stairs.

"John, leave it. It's just Toby. It's just the cat."

With difficulty, he climbed down the narrow, wooden steps to Molly's basement, and stopped in surprise at what he saw. Plastered over one wall were several newspaper clippings and photographs. A small makeshift desk of crates held a closed laptop, half a cup of black coffee and the newspaper cutting of John and Mycroft from several weeks ago. There was a coffee ring around Mycroft's head, and John noticed a pair of horns drawn roughly with a blue biro. He smiled slightly and then scanned the rest of the small room. A little camp bed stretched across the opposite wall. The bedding was neat and untouched. Above their heads, the basement window banged loudly in the wind.

"He's gone," John said to himself. He went to the laptop, and lifted it, feeling the heat from the bottom of it. The mug also held some heat and John brought it to his lips and gave a little sip, before wincing at the taste.

"Two sugars, if I'm not mistaken. Please, _do_ correct me if I'm wrong."

Molly stood, holding her hands under her chin and chewing her lip in worry.

"Where has he gone?"

"I…I don't know. He comes and goes as he pleases. You know how he is."

John nodded distractedly. He did know. He knew that man better than anyone. Why was Sherlock hiding from him? A different wave of grief washed over him.

"Sit down John," Molly instructed gently, and John obeyed without a word. He could no longer stand, even if he wanted to. His head ached as he studied the space in which Sherlock had been, just moments before.

"You need to go to the hospital. Let me call you an ambulance."

"No, no."

"Well, where will you go?"

"Home," he stammered. "To Harry's. To _Harry's_," he repeated the correction firmly. "Nothing's changed, has it?" Molly had the feeling he was saying those words for himself rather than for her. She stroked his arm.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm sorry." He stood abruptly and headed back up the steps. She heard the front door close with a bang.

000

Molly sat curled up on her sofa. The clock was nearing 3am. Her eyes stung from tears that had been falling for some time. Guilty tears. Her cat Toby lay curled up beside her, fast asleep and unaware of Molly's unrest. From below, she heard the faint click of the basement window shutting to, and she jumped quickly to her feet, and towards the basement door. Her feet stepped lightly down the wooden stairs and she reached the bottom, out of breath from the panic and exhaustion.

"Where the hell have you been?" she snapped angrily, but was so relieved to see the man sat calmly on the bed in front of her.

"Oh, so we're one of those couples now?" Sherlock Holmes asked with a smirk.

"What?"

"A joke." He pulled off his scarf. "I had to get out of here. I…Is he still here?"

"Yeah, he's upstairs on my sofa at three o'clock in the morning." Sherlock looked at her, puzzled. "A joke," she said dryly.

"Oh."

"If he's got any sense, he'll have gotten himself to a hospital."

"Hospital? What's wrong with him?"

Molly sighed and lowered himself onto the bed beside him.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about this."

"About what?"

"About John."

Sherlock sighed. His eyes fell onto the newspaper cutting; onto the face of his dearest friend. He wanted so desperately to fix everything, and he was beginning to doubt whether even he, the great Sherlock Holmes, was capable.

"I'm doing this _for_ John," he muttered.

"I know."

"No. You _don't _know. If they find out I'm still alive, they will kill him. They've got a bullet with his name on it. And I am not going to be responsible for that. I can't…I can't begin to think of what the world would be like without John Watson. That world would be a terrible place. You can't ask me to do that, Molly. I can't lose him. I'm not going to be the one to bury my best friend."

"But John's had to do that," Molly pointed out crossly. "John can imagine what a world without Sherlock Holmes feels like, because he's living it. _Every_ day. He's lost you. He's buried his best friend."

Sherlock faltered at her words.

"What do you want from me, Molly?"

"You asked for my help. Four months ago, you needed help. I'm trying to help you now. You're so consumed with protecting John that you can't see you're losing him. If you're not careful Sherlock they'll be nothing left of him!"

Sherlock stared blankly at the wall.

"Did you hear me, Sherlock?"

"I heard you," he said quietly.

Molly made her way back up to the ground floor, trying desperately to calm herself. She fell heavily into bed. When she woke for work, only a few hours later, Sherlock was no longer there.

* * *

><p>Again, thank you so much for your responses to this story so far :-) It really means a lot. K<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

"_Some things in this world, man, they don't make sense. And some things you don't need until they leave you; they're the things that you miss." Matchbox Twenty._

Several days later, John was on his way back from the corner shop when he heard his phone chime. Pulling it out, he saw Molly's name on his screen and tapped the message open quickly.

_Toby has done a runner. I'm really worried about him. Please keep an eye out xxx_

John's jaw set, and his eyes automatically scanned the street. He looked back down at his phone and typed a quick acknowledgement. He began to put it back in his pocket when it beeped again.

_Lestrade:  
>Who's Toby?<em>

He chuckled to himself and headed home.

000

John was slumped on the sofa eating a slice of toast, when he heard his phone beep from the coffee table. He rolled his eyes at the message from an unknown number: _Got debt? Call our hotline to speak to one of our advisers (Calls cost 50p per minute)._ The phone bounced as he threw it onto the sofa cushions, disinterested.

John had heard nothing from Molly since her text several days before. He'd considered calling her, but fought against it. When his phone beeped later that afternoon, he hoped it would be her. Instead, he read another spam message from an unknown number. He frowned. The message read: _Read your horoscope now at . Could this be your year?_ John laughed loudly. "Um…no," he said to his phone. "Not _this_ year."

That afternoon, John decided to catch the bus to Baker Street and call in on Mrs Hudson. He daydreamed out the window at the streets of London, when he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket.

"Popular today," he muttered to himself, and then rolled his eyes upon seeing an unfamiliar number: _Activate your gym account with us, and receive six months for the price of four (conditions apply)._

John closed the message crossly and put his phone away with a huff.

Mrs Hudson opened the door to 221B with a large smile.

"Did you forget your key?" she asked over his shoulder as she hugged him tightly.

"No, I just…" John trailed off, not really wanting to explain to her that it didn't quite feel like home anymore.

"Come in, come in. I've made you a cake. You're all skin and bones, John," she said anxiously as she headed down the hallway to her door. John smiled, and a surge of warmth filled his heart.

John picked at his cake as he listened to Mrs Hudson telling him about the new couple who had moved in next door with Mrs Turner. She was interrupted by John's phone beeping. He acknowledged it with a glance before sipping at his tea.

"It could be important," Mrs Hudson ventured.

"Or, more likely it's junk. Yes," John confirmed as he opened the message and read it aloud. "_'Visit London: Half price on West End tickets if you book before the end of the month.' _See? I never get junk and I've received four today."

"Are they from the same company? You should phone them up and give them an earful."

John shook his head.

"No, they're a different number every time." He reached for his tea again, and stopped suddenly at his own words. His mug hovered close to his lips as he frowned in thought.

"What's wrong?"

"Um, nothing." He smiled, but inside his brain was screaming at him to think. Debt, horoscopes, a gym and London Tourism. He couldn't see a connection. But then, he doubted that there was one. It was probably just a habit from his old life; seeing something that wasn't there to be seen. Even so, he was pleased he hadn't deleted the messages. Just in case.

000

That night, John had struggled to fall asleep but had finally managed it, minutes before his phone chimed. He groaned.

"Why? Why do you hate me so much? '_Enter our competition to win a free iPhone4. Visit our website for more details._' No thank you!" He threw his phone, without looking where it landed, before running a hand over his face and rolling over to attempt sleep.

John did not receive any texts the following day, from known or unknown numbers. He began to think he'd broken his phone throwing it so aggressively. In an attempt to determine the state of his phone, he found himself texting his sister:

_This is a test._

_Congrats, u passed. How u doing?_

_I'm fine. I feel weird._

_Weird? What have u taken?_

John frowned at this last message. A nagging feeling started to grow in his stomach, and he rose suddenly to head to the bathroom. From the cabinet, he grabbed two pill packets and pushed one of each into his hand. After a pause, he placed them on his tongue and swallowed them down resentfully. He silently congratulated himself, before giving himself a bitter grimace in the mirror, and switching off the light.

000

It had been a bright morning, and John had dragged himself out of the flat to the corner café, as he felt he was beginning to struggle under his own company. He'd just sat down with a coffee and a newspaper, when his phone had rung. John barely said a word during the ten minute phone call.

"Have you tried the uncle?" he asked when Lestrade paused for breath.

"The uncle? It can't have been him. His alibi holds up. Besides, his shoes were clean."

John smiled to himself.

"Then it probably _was _him. I'd bring him in. It's just a suggestion."

There was a pause.

"Ok, thanks John."

They ended the call, and John sat back in his chair. A smile still remained on his face. His eyes landed on a woman who was looking at him curiously. She looked away with a blush. As John finished his paper, his attention was drawn to a man who crouched suddenly beside his table.

"Did you drop this, mate?"

John frowned.

"No, not mine," he told the man but then faltered. On the crisp, white envelope, he saw his name written in blue ink. John recognised the handwriting immediately and snatched it quickly from the stranger's hand.

"Actually, it is mine. Thanks."

The man shrugged and wandered off. With trembling hands, John turned the envelope over several times. His eyes scanned the café quickly, before ripping the letter open. Inside, he found a single piece of paper, and the same familiar handwriting. It read:

_There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something._

John crinkled his nose as he reread the sentence. He wasn't at all sure what it meant, but his heart pounded at the thought of Sherlock. It was really him. John ran his hand over the paper, imagining the way Sherlock held his pen, and the careful way he must have folded the note before sealing the envelope. John put it quickly into his pocket before leaving the café in a hurry.

Back at the flat, the front door greeted John with a pink heart-shaped post-it note. He recognised it immediately as one of Molly's but the blue ink and handwriting told him differently. It simply said '57'. John pulled it carefully from the glass door, glanced behind him, and put it with his letter in his pocket. Once inside, John grabbed his phone, and turned his mind to the five messages he'd received two days before. He thought over the messages in his head, and couldn't see the connection. Once again, Sherlock Holmes was making him feel stupid! He gave a sigh and tried a new tactic. With a pen and piece of paper, he re-wrote the messages in order and stared at them desperately.

"What are you playing at?" John mumbled under his breath and sat back, accepting defeat. He then turned his mind to his note. An idea occurred, and he typed the words carefully into Google. The page loaded and John gave a laugh at the results: A quote from The Hobbit.

"Aren't you funny, Mr Holmes," he said to himself. He still wasn't sure what the point of the message was.

It was only as John got up to put the kettle on, that he noticed the door to Harry's office was ajar. John stopped on the spot. The post-it note was a sign that Sherlock had been there. What if he hadn't stopped at the front door? Carefully, John opened the door and peered into the room. Sherlock's voice filled John's mind, and John looked carefully at the dust on each of Harry's towering bookcases, and the wooden desk that faced out into the back yard. It was hard for John to notice if anything was out of place. He'd only ever been into the room on a couple of occasions. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him? As he turned to leave and switch the light off, his eyes fell on a book on the shelf by the door; a green spine which displayed two words in black font: The Hobbit.

John pulled the book from its shelf, and began to flick through the pages when a number popped into his head. Quickly, he turned to page 57. Another pink post-it sat obediently in the middle of the page, with a message scrawled in blue ink:

_Monday. 11am. Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

John blinked back tears as he read and re-read the message. Monday. That was only two days away. In two days' time, he would see Sherlock again, and everything he'd been through over the past months would be fixed. Maybe then, the pain in his chest would finally go away. But where he was supposed to go?

"Am I overthinking this?" he asked himself loudly into the empty room. "I'm an idiot, remember, Sherlock? Would it have killed you to have given me a clue which I could have figured out?"

John fuelled himself with a cup of tea and a dry digestive, and spent the next half an hour staring at the messages on his phone, and his written version on the scrap of paper. He began to get agitated at himself, even more so when he caught his hand on his mug of tea, sending it sloshing all over his phone and the page.

"Oh for fuck–"

He shook the piece of paper, and began to dab at it carefully with an old tissue. The dabbing came to a slow halt as John eyed his own writing. Suddenly, he'd seen it, there in the letters down the page. The message was now clear. He had been over-thinking it after all. A gradual smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh," he said slowly and then laughed. "Ok then. Monday, 11am. I'll be there."

* * *

><p>AN: Anyone think they know Sherlock's hidden message? :-)


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks again for the reviews. And well done to those who worked out the message. It was 'Grave' :-)

* * *

><p>"<em>Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life." The Fray.<em>

John lay awake on the sofa, watching the light grow brighter through the living room window. He breathed a sigh, and swallowed down a wave of nausea. Today was the day. Suddenly, all the months of longing now turned to fear, and John doubted whether he'd be able to get off the sofa, let alone make it across London to meet Sherlock.

He washed and dressed with a struggle, ignoring the nagging thought of his painkillers in the bathroom cupboard. A glance at his watch told him it was 10 o'clock. John knew if he had to wait around in the flat any longer, he wouldn't go. Grabbing his jacket from the back of the door, he stepped out into the street in search of a cab.

The taxi grew nearer to the graveyard, and John's hands wrung nervously in his lap. He looked out of the window for a familiar figure.

"Actually, mate, could you just drop me here?"

He climbed out of the cab stiffly, regretting his decision not to take his tablets, and wandered slowly up the gravelled path and across the lumpy grass to the shining black granite headstone under the far tree. He traced the lettering with a finger and smiled.

"A little nonsense now and then, is relished by the wisest men," he said to the gravestone, and then giggled to himself. He sniffed, pulled his face into a serious expression, and then laughed again.

He stood and waited. Despite the fact that his watch had not yet reached 11, John felt a sense of disappointment with every passing minute. His eyes scanned the graveyard and he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.

"You better not stand me up," he muttered under his breath. John took another scan of the paths, and faltered. There, at the top of the path, by the church, stood the tall, familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes. He was lacking his long coat and scarf, and was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a zipped up navy hoodie and canvas shoes. But it was really him. Alive. Breathing. Smiling. John's breath caught in his throat.

Their eyes met, and even across the distance, John could see Sherlock mouth pull into a small smile. For the first time since the fall, time stopped for John. Sherlock took several steps towards John, and he could feel his own body moving from the graveside. His steps quickened down the cemetery path, and suddenly, after months apart, they collided. John was hit with such a force that it made him stumble slightly. Two arms held him firmly, and John felt his own shoulders shake as he let out a little sob. Sherlock Holmes held him silently. It felt like an age before John released Sherlock and rubbed at his eyes frantically with the palm of his hand. He gave Sherlock a look up and down, and frowned.

"What are you wearing?"

Sherlock laughed loudly.

"_That's_ your first question?" he said in disbelief. John simply shrugged and let the sound of Sherlock's voice wash over him. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hands. They were warm in his own. He ran his hands up Sherlock's arms, to his shoulders and squeezed them tightly.

"Fuck."

"I know."

"I mean, fucking hell, Sherlock!" He pulled the taller man into him again, and Sherlock stood motionless while John embraced him. He rested his head against John's and waited.

"Aren't you going to ask me how?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"No," John answered quickly into his shoulder. "No," he laughed again. He finally stepped back and observed him again. "Can't I just have this; my own little miracle? Can't I just believe for one moment that it's because I deserve this?"

Sherlock thought about this for a moment and then nodded.

"Ok."

They turned slowly and headed down the path towards the church, and out of sight from the road.

"Oh, I brought you something," Sherlock said casually, and pulled a small box from one of the pockets in his hoody. John frowned as he turned the parcel over in his hands.

"These are mine," he mumbled, looking at the painkillers and the prescription label on the side of the box.

"A fact you seem to have forgotten," Sherlock pointed out bluntly. John stared at him. "You look terrible, John."

John nodded numbly and put the packet into his jacket pocket.

"Well, I did just get hit by a car…Oh and there's the also the fact that my best friend threw himself from a building. Forgive me if I'm not looking my best." He gave a sniff and looked away.

They reached a bench on the far side of the graveyard and sat down beside each other, their shoulders touching for more than just need of warmth.

"I miss you… _Every_ day," John admitted to his knees.

"I know."

"No, you don't know," he replied irritably.

"You think that this has been easy for me? That I haven't missed you?"

"I didn't think you'd have time to miss me in Hell, what with the Cluedo…" he trailed off with a smile.

"What?"

"Nothing; something Molly said that's all. She was humouring me. Of course she was. I'm such an idiot."

"You mustn't be cross with her, John."

"But I am cross with her. And I'm cross with you. What the hell are you playing at?"

His eyes locked with Sherlock, and Sherlock flinched at the question.

"You said…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "You said friends protect people. That's what you said. On that day. Those were your words. Do I really have to explain it to you?"

John scoffed.

"So you did this for me? Well thank you, very much!"

"No, I did this for me," Sherlock said honestly. "I'd backed myself into a corner, and I saw no way out but this. If I hadn't, then… Well, I wasn't prepared to bury you in the ground, just because I'd made a mistake."

John shook his head.

"You're unbelievable."

"I'm selfish," Sherlock corrected.

They sat in silence, listening to the sound of traffic in the far distance.

Sherlock turned to John suddenly, and looked at him sternly.

"Why aren't you taking your meds?"

"I don't know," John mumbled. He did know. Part of John desperately wanted to punish Sherlock. It had given John control of something, when everything else in his life seemed to have tumbled out of control. "Is that why you're here? Back from the dead to lecture me?"

"Yes. And I thought, maybe you needed a reason to take them." He offered a smile and John returned it. John thought for a moment about telling Sherlock everything; that he wasn't coping. It was on the tip of his tongue, when he caught Sherlock looking anxiously around the graveyard, and shift uncomfortably on the bench. John realised then, that Sherlock had not come back. This was a passing visit. He had come for the sake of the pills and nothing more. John shut down again, and braced himself for what was to come.

"Go on then," he said quietly, and Sherlock broke his gaze from the empty cemetery.

"Go on what?"

"Tell me how you did it. You're dying to tell me. Pun intended."

Sherlock grinned.

"What goes up, must come down," he said cryptically and John elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Don't give me that, Smart Arse. You never hit the floor, did you?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"You utter bastard." A grin spread across Sherlock's face. John hated that it was contagious. "And Moriarty?"

Sherlock's grin faded slightly.

"He's dead."

"Dead-dead, or Sherlock-dicking-around dead?"

Sherlock just smiled and John sighed. Both men fell silent for a moment. John knew what was coming, and he hoped that the silence would last forever. It didn't.

"I have to go, John," Sherlock said quietly, partly hoping that it wouldn't be heard. John shook his head.

"Or, here's an idea, how about, instead of being dead, you just be alive instead? You've done the hard part. You broke my heart, and I still forgive you. Who gives a shit what anyone else thinks?"

Sherlock looked truly moved by these words, for a brief moment. His jaw set decisively.

"I have to fix this mess. If they knew I was alive then they'll come after you. Friends protect people, remember?"

"I hate it when you quote me, back at me."

"I know." Sherlock let out a long breath. "Please, John, for me, just look after yourself. Take your meds, get some sleep, eat a sandwich for God's sake, I don't know. Just…I can't go through all of this, only to find that the person I'm fixing this for is…" He closed his eyes. "Just, don't die, ok?"

John nodded.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Sherlock rose suddenly from the bench.

"I have to go."

John rose too, grabbing firmly at his hand.

"No, no, no. I've only just got you back."

Sherlock looked down at his their hands.

"Or, I could come with you?" John suggested. It broke his heart to see tears forming in Sherlock's eyes.

"No, don't. Don't do that," Sherlock muttered sadly. He cleared his throat. "Go home, John. Home-home. Back to Baker Street. Be happy. Be alive. And I'll come back for you."

He pulled John into an awkward hug.

"Don't you make me a promise, if you can't keep it," came John's voice, muffled into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock kissed him clumsily on the top of his head.

"When have I ever let you down?...Ok, stupid question. Don't answer that."

They smiled sadly at each other.

"Goodbye, John."

Sherlock turned on his heels and walked quickly down the path and out of the graveyard. John closed his eyes, not being able to watch Sherlock leave his life again. He hoped, for the first time since the fall, that he'd be able to sleep that night.

* * *

><p>AN:

John's line at the gravestone is a Willy Wonka quote.

I was planning on this being the end, but I find I can't leave it there. I'm working on an epilogue which should be up at the weekend. In the meantime, please take a look at my Broken trilogy: The Broken Man, Harder to Breathe, and So What Happens Now? It's rather angsty. John gets very angry. He throws things. I'm rather proud of it :-)

Many thanks for the support I've received during this.

K x


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